Beautiful Day, Isn't it?
by adamantly
Summary: John's not sure what he was expecting, but that is definitely not it. Johnlock Pre-slash. Uni!lock


**Unedited and un-britpicked. Written for the prompt meme!**

* * *

_Hexokinase, phosphoglucose isomerase, phosphofructokinase…_

Chin propped on his palm, John idly thumbs through his battered textbook, barely managing to absorb the material properly.

John's absolutely sick of the citric acid cycle. He's half convinced that biochemistry will be his final straw before he snaps and becomes a serial killer.

And that day will come soon, he thinks viciously. It's just so bloody tedious, Christ.

Exams be damned, John wishes Sherlock's afternoon class would end sooner, just for the sake of having his roommate and longtime best friend around to keep him company. Hell, he'd even be fine with listening to him rant and rave about his professor's incompetence.

Ah, he can hear him now. _No, you don't understand, John. Evidently, Ph.D's are handed out to anyone; Anderson _John vividly envisions Sherlock's face screwing up _is a complete moron._

Suddenly aware of the smile that's crept across his face, John blinks. He's been staring at this page blankly much longer than expected.

John's not one to beat a dead horse. Flicking the textbook closed with one hand, John uses the other to rummage around his backpack for his iPod and an old pair of gym shorts.

He'll go for a run. That will clear his mind.

Hopefully

* * *

Sherlock still isn't back when John returns, which is decidedly odd. John left about two hours ago; he even had time to take a shower.

Despite the worry clawing at the back of his mind, John fires off a quick text to him before returning to his textbook.

John doesn't bother to look up when he clicks door clicks open, but the tension that has been building up inside him eases immensely. John absently listens to the unmistakably sound of obnoxiously expensive shoes pacing back and forth across cheap carpet of the dormitory. He turns to greet Sherlock, but something in his expression stops him.

Why the hell does he look so bloody terrified?

"Hey, Sherlock," he says hesitantly. Sherlock doesn't pay much attention as he tosses his bag haphazardly on his bed, dragging a hand through his messy hair before whipping around toward John.

Caught off guard, Sherlock's probably just realizing someone else is in the room. John fights the urge to roll his eyes.

Sherlock's still staring at him, which John wouldn't normally find strange, but the foreign deer in headlights expression is distinctly unsettling. His eyes rake over John like it's the first time he's seeing him, then, even stranger, the tips of Sherlock's ears tint red.

Right then, that is not on. At all.

He swallows visibly. "John," Sherlock says. John pauses. He hasn't heard Sherlock's voice crack that badly since they were thirteen.

John raises an eyebrow, which only makes Sherlock more nervous. He shifts his weight. "Beautiful day, isn't it?"

John's not sure what he was expecting, but that is _definitely _not it.

He leans back, arms folded across his chest, prepared for his best friend to explain why he –or both of them—has been kicked out of university just barely half way through their first term.

Sherlock clenches his fists by his sides and good God, is he _blushing?_

No, that's mental. Sherlock's probably just sick, is all. Lord knows it's a much more likely scenario.

Either way, John is worried. He looks at Sherlock expectantly.

"Do we have milk? I'm starving and I could eat a whole bar of chocolate. I'm gay. The sky is so blue today, perhaps I should go out for a walk and I'm sorry for not you telling before."

Clarity dawns on John like a wrecking ball and he wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Sherlock can't _possibly _think he'd have some kind of issue with that, especially with his sister and what he thought was his own shallowly concealed bisexuality.

Although, judging from how nervous Sherlock seems to be, said bisexuality may be less apparent than he thought.

Also, the confession is so… ridiculous, John isn't sure whether he wants to laugh hysterically or pull Sherlock close. Either way, he's an idiot and John's not about to let an opportunity like this to go by.

John smirks. "The weather is gorgeous, actually. You should go for a walk while it's still nice,"

John wishes he could have photographed Sherlock's blindsided expression.

"I—uh, well. Yes. A walk. I will go… take a walk?" Sherlock looks so lost, which is so rare, John can't help the smile tugging at his lips.

He turns on his heal, apparently serious about that walk. He's half way to the door before John snags his wrist, gently pulling him back around. Grey eyes swim with trepidation and John feels himself soften.

John drags his knuckles down a sharp cheekbone, reveling in the way Sherlock's eyes widen, leaning into the touch, just barely.

"I _know_, you daft git."

A judgmental eye roll shatters the vulnerable expression. "Of course you know, you idiot; you were outside no more than one—no, two and a half hours ago—why are you laughing?"

John pushes him to sit on the bed before Sherlock falls over, and then moves to sit beside him. "I know you're gay, berk."

Sherlock stares blankly. "How?"

A voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like Harry's shrieks something about a gaydar that he dutifully stomps back down into the recesses of his mind.

A shrug. "Just a hunch, really."

Sherlock's eyes narrow, an expression John acquaints with a verbal lashing and cuts him off before he can start.

"Look, what I'm trying to get at is that it _doesn't matter_, Sherlock, who you choose." John swallows, deliberately ignoring any thoughts of Sherlock being with someone that wasn't hi—

No. Stop. Not right now.

He consciously makes an effort not to draw Sherlock's attention to his hand, which has migrated from his wrist to form a loose hold around his hand.

Though, judging from Sherlock's bewildered expression, John isn't entirely certain he succeeded. Regardless, John smiles. "It's fine, Sherlock. Really, it's _all_ fine."

John waits a few moments for Sherlock to come out of his haze, and then finally _finally, _Sherlock meets his eyes and smiles, rare and genuine; quirking up more on the right.

Grinning wolfishly, John dislodges his hand from Sherlock's and slaps his hands against his thighs, snapping them out of the little world they tended to lose themselves in, together, and stands up. "Come on, let's go eat. I'm starving and you haven't eaten since dinner last night and apparently you can eat a whole bar of chocolate. So come on; let's go."

Sherlock scowls, but it's not enough to override the flush creeping up his neck. "Dining hall food is atrocious, John, I don't know why you bothered to waste your time with it."

John rolls his eyes, reach toward the bed to drag a surprising complaint Sherlock up and toward the door. "Shut up, I might as well make the money I invested in this school worth something besides a piece of paper."

"Mmm, Mycroft's sentiments, I believe. Do you really want to attain the size of an infant whale?"

John snorts, then throws his head back and laughs, only resenting himself a little for entertaining the stupid comment more apt for Harry's crude sense of humour. "Mycroft was… a bit round when we were seven, Sherlock. I don't _ever _remember him being the _size of an infant whale,_" John teases as they make their way out of the elevator toward the front door.

"That's because you're _blind_, honestly, I don't know what's worse, your god-awful deductive reasoning skills, despite knowing me as long as you have—"

It really is a beautiful day, John decides as he moves closer to Sherlock. Surprisingly, he doesn't move away, but edges a tad closer with a pleased little smile on his face.

John grins.


End file.
